


biting cold, thrash and scold

by swagneto



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 03:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swagneto/pseuds/swagneto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Reichenbach Fall, John copes the only way he can. Sherlock plays violins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	biting cold, thrash and scold

The first week is the hardest, the days stretching long and slow. Mycroft visits him twice. When he comes to the flat, the first thing that hits John is how out of place he looks, impeccable and immaculate in his suit amongst the mess that has become John’s life. John makes tea and they don’t say anything for a long time, just staring at the mugs in their hands and trying to find the words to fill the silence. There are no words, John thinks, that can fill the hole that Sherlock left behind, nothing he can say to Mycroft that won’t seem inappropriate or too intimate or irrelevant.

After a time, Mycroft leaves, pausing in the doorway with an awkward hand on John’s shoulder. There are still no words and the silence stretches on, and it isn’t until he leaves and the door closes behind him that John can breathe again. 

It’s easier alone, easier to shut everyone and everything else out so that he can fall back into his own head, into the images of Sherlock that plague his dreams and his waking thoughts. He sees him on the rooftop, he sees him on the pavement, he sees him being carted away by paramedics while he stands uselessly by. He sees him on the very couch where John sits now, violin or riding crop in hand, talking aloud without a care for whether John is there to listen or not. John sees him in memories that he’s not even sure are real, situations dreamed up in his mind just to have Sherlock somewhere, anywhere. 

Molly’s been avoiding him, not that John has really actively sought her out. But he could see it in the way she looked at him at the morgue when he was called to identify the body, in the less than subtle flicker of her eyes, the way she stared at the floor, at Sherlock’s body, anywhere but at him. John wonders if he should comfort her - he knows she cared for him, her crush obvious to everyone except the object of her affections - but he can’t bring himself to say anything. He knows that the second he opens his mouth he’ll choke, drown in the anger, the disappointment, the soul crushing grief. Talking about it makes it real, and John can’t bring himself to let that happen yet, Molly’s grief be damned. 

His brief moment at Sherlock’s tombstone notwithstanding, John hasn’t cried for Sherlock, hasn’t cried for what he’s lost (what the _world_ has lost). It’s almost like it’s too much, like Sherlock’s weight is crushing him and he’s too busy trying to breathe to even think about crying. 

Finally, there comes a day where John thinks he can’t possibly do this any longer. He’s been hanging on to the end of his rope for so long that it’s beginning to fray, dry and split and useless. Eventually it brings him to the rooftop, to the place where everything ended. He can feel the wind whistling through his hair, see the pavement looming beneath him and he thinks of Sherlock, wonders what he must have thought in this same place, what possessed him to take the final step. 

There’s a moment, brief, where John considers letting himself go, letting his feet slip. It would be easier, neater he thinks, than his mess of a life back at the flat. 

“John.”

John closes his eyes, shuts out the voices in his head. “He’s gone, he’s gone,” he mutters to himself, but then he can hear footsteps moving towards him and he can’t help but turn, can’t help but hope.

“Step off the ledge, John.”

He’s still wearing the clothes that John watched him die in. They’re clean, though, no sign of the blood, no evidence of the day that turned John’s life inside out. 

“Sherlock,” he says on a breathless exhale, his voice tight in his throat. He doesn’t know whether he wants to cry or laugh or punch his best friend right in the nose. “Sherlock,” he says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“You couldn’t have come up with an original suicide attempt?” 

And then John is laughing and Sherlock is smiling at him and little by little, John can feel the pressure easing off his chest. 

 

 

There’s an awfully short time between Sherlock coming back from the dead and the day John finds himself at a crime scene once again. In front of him, a man is lying dead and on the other side of the body Sherlock paces back and forth, his eyes flicking back to the corpse every other minute. 

“Homicide, obviously. Clumsy, though, the killer left his bag behind. There are scuff marks everywhere, they tousled, the victor took him down with a well placed right hook. Possibly an accident, still manslaughter, but under suspicious enough circumstances that he ran afterwards.” 

There’s a pause, then Sherlock looks straight and John and gives him that look again, the one he knows drives John crazy with frustration. “My guess would be a drug deal gone wrong, only of course I don’t _guess_ so yes, drugs.”

John just stares and Sherlock rolls his eyes. “There’s traces of cocaine on his fingertips John, do pay attention. They fought for it, this man lost.”

Curiously, John squats next to the body to inspect the corpse’s fingers and sure enough, Sherlock has it in one. 

“How do you know it’s not his bag?” 

Sherlock snorts. “Please.”

From the doorway, Lestrade comes back clutching a styrofoam cup of coffee. “Find anything then?” 

John glances at Sherlock, waiting for him to pour it all out, load Lestrade down with facts and evidence so quickly and smugly that there’s no question he takes enjoyment out of it.

Instead, there’s nothing. Sherlock’s eyes don’t even move in the direction of the doorway, instead staying fixed on John, like he’s waiting for an answer too. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that’s not his bag. Also cocaine.” 

Lestrade goes straight to the bag and hands it over to evidence while John tries to figure out what just happened. Never has there been a time that Sherlock gave up the chance to gloat. 

“I appreciate it John, thanks,” Lestrade is saying, and then he’s herding him out the door.

“Sherlock--” John starts, and Lestrade gives him an odd look before Sherlock is following him out the door. 

“Go home John, get some rest.” Lestrade shuts the door behind them and John raises an eyebrow at Sherlock in confusion. 

“You heard the man,” Sherlock says, and John doesn’t argue.

 

 

The kettle is boiled and John’s making tea for two when Mycroft sends him a text to tell him that he’s coming up the stairs. Why he bothers, John will never know, but he long since gave up trying to understand the motives behind everything the Holmes brothers do. The knock on the door comes shortly after.

“Can you get that Sherlock? It’ll be Mycroft.”

For a split second, it hits John how strange it is that this is the first time Mycroft has come to see them in the week that Sherlock has been back.

The knocking continues, and John rolls his eyes. He can hear the sharp sound of the violin floating back to him from the other room. Sherlock hasn’t moved.

“I’ll get it then, don’t trouble yourself,” he mutters as he unlocks the door.

Mycroft gives him a smile, strained at the edges in that way that Mycroft’s smiles always are, and steps over the threshold. 

“Evening John. Forgive the intrusion, I thought I’d better come and say hello.”

John frowns. “You never just come to say hello.”

“Yes, well.” Unsurprisingly, Mycroft offers no further explanation, instead choosing to lead the way into the kitchen. “I know I sent ahead a warning John, but that was awfully fast,” Mycroft comments, gesturing to the two tea cups set out on the bench. 

“Oh, I was just making tea for Sherlock and I, do you want one?” 

The briefest flutter of something strange crosses Mycroft’s face before it’s replaced by another tight smile. “That would be lovely, John.” 

The violin is still playing softly from across the flat but John is used to Sherlock attempting to ignore Mycroft’s presence. 

“Sorry about him. You know how he is,” he says in way of apology, and is surprised by the very (very) slight tremble in Mycroft’s normally perfectly composed hands. They rattle the teacup in its saucer for just a second before Mycroft notices and places the cup down. 

“Is everything alright?”

“Might we sit, John?”

Mycroft doesn’t wait for an answer, just leads the way into the sitting room where Sherlock is perched on the very edge of his chair, his hands stilled on his violin. 

“Why is he here?” Sherlock asks abruptly.

“He’s your brother, Sherlock, at least pretend to be polite.”

Sherlock shakes his head and sets his violin down carefully. “I don’t want him here, John, please show him to the door.”

John glances at Mycroft with an apology on his lips, silenced quickly by the look of concern on Mycroft’s face. 

“Sorry-- Are you sure everything’s alright?”

Sherlock glares across the room. “Now, John!”

“Perhaps I should go. I just came to see… how you were doing.” Mycroft is already standing up, his tea untouched.

“You don’t have to-- Sherlock, shut up.”

“I expect I’ll see you soon John,” Mycroft says, and then he’s gone so fast John doesn’t think he even had time to blink.

“What was all that about?” he demands, but Sherlock just hunches down in his chair and picks up the violin again.

 

 

That night, John goes to bed thinking of how that’s the second time someone has refused to acknowledge Sherlock Holmes despite their being in the same room.

 

 

In the morning that follows, John finds Sherlock sitting on the edge of his bed. Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, John sits up and stares at Sherlock, bewildered. 

“Is something wrong?”

Sherlock looks at him, and there’s a sadness etched deep into his eyes that drums straight into John’s soul, a sadness that John can barely even begin to comprehend. “John,” Sherlock murmurs, and then he’s leaning forward to brush his lips just barely against John’s own. 

“Everything is wrong,” he whispers after a second as he sits back. 

John blinks once, twice. “Sherlock?” 

“This can’t keep on.”

And then he’s gone, shutting John’s door behind him as if he were never there in the first place.

 

 

John doesn’t see Sherlock for three days. There’s no note, no word of warning, nothing. When he asks Mycroft, he receives that same smile and a promise that they’ll talk soon. From Lestrade John receives a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Sally avoids his eyes, Molly starts crying when he asks, and even Anderson just shakes his head.

 

 

“You have to tell me what’s going on,” John demands, slamming open the door to Mycroft’s office and ignoring the bewildered looks on the faces of whichever important people he had been meeting. 

“How on earth did you find--”

“I’ve spent a lot of time with your brother, now will you please tell me where he is, because I’m obviously the only person who doesn’t know.” 

With a gesture from Mycroft, the strangers in the room rise and leave, and another wave of Mycroft’s hand shows John to the chair in front of him. “You know where he’s gone, John.”

“Oh for god’s-- You’re exactly the same, the both of you, always talking like I know what you’re talking about in that bloody smug way. It’s _infuriating_ , you know that?”

“John, calm down.”

John grits his teeth and forces himself not to lash out across the desk. “No. No, I will bloody not calm down. I _just_ got him back and he’s _gone_ again and no one will say anything, like I didn’t just spend _months_ thinking he was dead.”

There’s a long silence and John is just about ready to throttle him when Mycroft says softly, gently, “My brother _is_ dead, John.”

“I don’t--” John starts, but then his chest is seizing up and he doesn’t believe him, won’t believe _it_ , but he can feel the crushing starting anew, feel the panic setting in. 

“He died three months ago, John. You watched it happen.”

There’s a steady stream of _no, no_ inside John’s head. He can feel his breath coming short, feel his vision clouding around the edges, his stomach lurching like he’s just had his feet pulled straight out from under him. There’s no room, no air, nothing but his shaking hands and _he died, he died, he died._

And then there’s Sherlock sitting in the chair beside him and John chokes out a sound, something strangled and inhuman. There’s the same sadness in Sherlock’s eyes, deeper now, somehow, though John hadn’t thought it could be worse. Somewhere far away he can hear violins (can see Sherlock’s fingers working the bow, working the strings). 

“You have to let me go, John,” Sherlock says quietly. 

“We’re going to get you help,” Mycroft is saying, but John can’t hear, can’t listen. He’s back in Afghanistan, watching men die, so many faces, so many dead eyes, but all of them are Sherlock. 

“I can’t.”

“Let go, John.” Sherlock’s voice is steady, commanding without raising his voice and clear as a bell, but now John can start to see, see the way he looks slightly out of place. He thinks of the way nobody has spoken to Sherlock since the day John watched him fall. With a spark of clarity he wonders at the fact that Sherlock is still wearing the same clothes, reconstructed before his eyes exactly as John last saw him, standing on a rooftop and saying his name.

When John shuts his eyes tight, the violins roar in his ears and then fall suddenly, deafeningly quiet. When he opens them again, Sherlock is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> All my love to Julia for being my beta and reassuring me that this was half decent despite how much she hates me for it. 
> 
> I blame this fandom and it's angst-magnet for what occurred here.


End file.
